Laws of the Realm
by Doormouse
Summary: What if the marriage had happened?  Saying he only married her because she's alive...Only comforts for so long because sometimes there are things worse than death.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay, uhm. I was just watching the movie--you know? In honor of Halloween upcoming--and I was watching the end right? And suddenly wondered, what would have happened if Barbara had been only a second later, and the Marriage had gone through you know? So I thought maybe I'd take that up and try to write it.**

** Also, because I've got her married to him, I wanted to up her age just a little. I want to play with the darker side of their relationship and so odd enough stuff is going to be happening without me gettin' in trouble for her being a minor. So let's just call her 18 for my peace of mine. Hopefully that doesn't bother anyone too terribly.**

** With that terribly long author's note and a reminder that I do have other stories so this might not go too quickly (I knew my plans to try writing out the whole story first and then post it would fall through.) but I'll finish, provided along the way no one beats me to death with a shovel.**

**And not like you don't know but I don't own any of the characters and sueing me would really suck. **

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_I now pronounce you Man and Wife. _

The thick and heavy words repeated again and again in her mind. Pounding against it and her raw nerves like great waves crashing against the shore. Wearing away her sanity and her reserves bit, by agonizing bit.

_I now pronounce you Man and Wife._

The sickly sweet taste of fear and unimaginable sorrow weighted heavily in the pit of her stomach. Beside her, still with one thick arm draped around her shoulders, the ghost she had just been married to cackled, high-pitched and grating.

_I now pronounce you Man and Wife._

When the world pitched up around them and swirled, settling like so much dust to the floor she dropped to her knees—difficult in that revolting hoop-skirt—and retched, her stomach turning itself inside out in an attempt to empty itself of everything she had ever eaten.

_I now pronounce you Man and Wife._

She was sobbing and heaving and shaking so much so she could hardly catch her breath. Not that death would be so terrible. He wouldn't want her if she was dead, right? He might even let her go.

_I now pronounce you Man and Wife._

He would never let her go. He wouldn't let her die either. She felt that distinctive swish of cold power—like a fine misting of rain—wash over her and her lungs filled with air and emptied even though she couldn't draw breath for all her heavy sobbing.

"Is it the traveling or something else because if it's the traveling thing I can do something about it. If not you're annoying me." His voice lanced into her small, secluded world and her heart froze in her breast. She glared up at him through bangs that hung in limp and sweaty tendrils. It took her a moment to realize that it was she who was swaying and not the room. He stood clear among hazy vision. Sharp around the face and middle and fuzzy at the edges.

Crushed red velvet and dust and wild hair.

"I don't know. It's finding myself suddenly married to a dead guy, being ripped away from my family even if they weren't the best people, and yes, maybe the traveling thing." Her anger burned away the tears and talking was easier than she expected. Her voice was reed thin and it trembled but she could speak and she watched him flinch.

"Look, you promised I can't do nothin' about that." He told her simply, and for a moment she thought she heard something more in his voice, but she dismissed it as she shook harder and retched again. At this point it was little more than dry heaves, but it still flexed every muscle in her body and a few she was certain appeared just to torment her for this occasion. "Drink this."

When she looked up at his suddenly quiet words she was startled to find he was now kneeling. He had shed the hideous red tux that was a signal of the _marriage _she suddenly found herself in, and was back in the striped suit, which was only slightly less hideous.

His knees were bent and he was pitched forward on his toes, balancing precariously. One arm was draped lazily over one leg and the other was stretched out towards her, cradling a dinged, metal goblet. His fingers were long and pale, and might have been elegant if not for those disgusting nails. She couldn't see what was in the goblet, but it was smoking.

"What is it?" She asked, suspiciously. She looked at it as if just being near it was enough for it to kill her.

"Drink it. It'll help with the Traveling Sickness. Mortals aren't supposed'ta transport like that." He told her.

"I mean what's in it." She clarified, wrinkling up her nose and trying to move away from the mess she'd left on the floor. There was a small part of her that was embarrassed by such a display of weakness on her part.

His empty hand with its almost-elegant fingers twitched and the mess was gone. She was still in the terrible dress—a symbol of her new prison she supposed—and she was still sweating and shaking. She wiped at the corner of her mouth with one gloved hand.

"Poison. What the fuck do you think is in it? I'm not going to kill you. I only married you because you're alive." He told her firmly.

"Comforting." She sneered, snatching it away from him, careful not to touch his hand. It was heavier than she imagined and the liquid sloshed within it, some spilled on the floor and she was almost surprised when it didn't eat through the thick planks, warped in some places and badly nailed in others.

She sniffed it experimentally and had a long moment where she was certain that her body was going to start ejecting organs for a lack of anything left in her stomach. "It smells revolting." She told him, just in case he didn't know.

"Fine you wanna be sick for days be that way." She felt that same cool sensation of power and realized that when he started forcing air in and out of her lungs he hadn't stopped, he had also lessened the dizziness and the nausea and several other symptoms. She fell back against what felt to be a chair or a couch and plugged her nose with one hand, and gulped the contents down as quickly as she could, clamping her now-free hand over her mouth.

She had to force it back down twice before the medicine—if that was what it was—stayed in her stomach.

It worked nearly instantly and she felt well enough to stand, walk to where Betelgeuse now stood—watching her intently—and slap him as hard as she could. Considering her weakened state it wasn't too terribly hard, but she relished the loud noise it made, the red welt on his cheek and the way his head snapped to the side.

"What the hell was that for?" He shouted, whirling on her. For a moment she was afraid he would strike her back, and she did not doubt that even without using his powers he would have more strength in the attack than her pathetic attempt.

"You're disgusting, and rude, and I want to go _home_!" She shouted back, covering her fear with more anger, and around this terrible monster she had more than enough anger.

"You ain't no prize yourself girlie! And this is home from now on! You _married me_. 'Member?" He asked, mockingly.

"Only because it was the only way to get you to help!" She shot back, silently startled by her surprise and hurt at what he'd said. "And I _am not _going to _stay _here!" She fairly screeched, her pitch raising with each word uttered.

"Oooh-hoo yes you are! You're _my wife_ now babes, and I ain't lettin' you go." He grinned wickedly at her. "Laws of the Realm girl. You're mine." The words carried such a heavy finality to them that she stumbled backwards, bumping into the chair she'd leaned against to drink the vile concoction.

She spotted a door that hung crooked on it's hinges, it sagged more than stood open and beyond was another room. That was all her frazzled brain needed to know and she ran, tripping over the terrible folds of the red skirt she wore and stumbling, crashing her shoulder hard into the door frame. She fell into the room more than entered it, and slammed the door shut behind her.

"Homehomehome! Homehomehome! Homehomehome!" She shouted, again and again and again until her voice was nothing more than a whisper, horse and spent. She curled up against the door, her fingers clawing uselessly at the wood and her heart longing for the smell of Delia cooking in the kitchen or the soft, squishy warmth of a hug from her father, anything that reminded her of home. Because anything was better than this hell she had fallen into, she wanted nothing more than to go home.

She did not know what he did when she ran, but on the other side of the flimsy door Betelgeuse was silent and a small sliver of her heart managed to be grateful for that. "Home, home, home. Please? Home."

She fell sleep curled against that door, her legs bent at odd angles beneath her and her arms shaking as they wrapped around her shoulders. She chanted "home" until she fell into a fitful sleep riddled with nightmares about snakes and rings and dead fingers in pockets and one old monster proclaiming:

_I now pronounce you Man and Wife._

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**That is all for now. So uh...it's probably terribly unoriginal but I hope you all like it a little. :)**_  
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	2. Chapter 2

**Okay this is the only warning, and really for this chapter I sould have bumped the rating up but I wanted to give you guys fair chance to make your own choices about whether you'd continue and tell you WHY I'm chosing to bump this up to an "M" rating.**

**Language-- that's obvious. I'm trying to keep this more like the movie and Beej did have a mouth on him.**

**Dark Themes -- I'm not talking about suicide or rape or even real violence. But it does deal with some dark things. I mean he kidnapped her, forced her to marry him and now is keeping her alive only because it suits his purposes. Think 'Misery' by Stephen King, with less snow.  
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**I'm a sissy -- This is the cartoon section. People come here mostly expecting to see Fics from the cartoon universe. I've take this and warped it into something dark and while I have my own beliefs about how kids should be raised it isn't my place to scare them senseless or jade them to the universe or whatever. So I'm going to be a complete sissy and bump the rating up to cover my own ass. **

**I don't own them, thought that much should be obvious. Please don't sue me I'm saving to have a plumber come because my faucet won't stop leaking and it's killing my water bill.**

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Even as he moved about his small set of rooms he kept one eye focused on the door he knew Linda was behind. That was her name wasn't it? It was "L-something" he knew that much.

She wasn't going to die at least, so beyond that he didn't really care what she did. That was the problem traveling the way he was used to, for ghosts it was fine, but in small percentage of mortals their organs would just stop.

Once he had known what happened to them. Why their organs stopped, why only some experienced this, all those things. Of course...once he'd been Juno's lapdog too so really what had once been didn't matter in the slightest. He stopped pacing—only then realizing that he had been pacing outside the room she'd locked herself into—and stared at the door, approaching it and raising his hand to knock.

He paused and thought better of it. Why knock? It was his house! He could just hop into the room whenever he pleased. The transporting might come near to killing Lindsay or whoever she was, but to him it was second nature.

Better yet, he should just rip the door right of it's goddamn hinges if he wanted in to see her. Power aside she'd be the one to fix it too because she had _no right _to lock him out of a part of his home. It would be scarier too, prove to her that he didn't need magic and power and energy to be stronger than her.

A cold snap of power caught his attention away from his mortal bride.

"Do you have _any idea _what sort of trouble you're in?" For such a small woman, Juno truly could bellow when she wanted to, which was more often than not around Betelgeuse. In fact he wasn't certain he had ever heard her speak when she _wasn't _yelling at him. He cocked a grin at that and Juno narrowed her eyes at him, gesticulating with her smoking cigarette. "Marrying a mortal, _a child for that matter!_" She sighed, pacing around, looking like a caged animal and twice as dangerous.

"Hey, she agreed to it. I did everything by the book." He narrowed his eyes at her. "You ain't got nothing on me, so why are you here?" He asked. Juno had more power than him, she was just bound to the rules and had no desire to break free of that lifestyle. And so it gave him pause to have her here when—for once in his afterlife—he hadn't done anything wrong.

"You kidnapped a mortal child and nearly killed her just so you could force her into your quarters. I don't know what you think but she can't get you more power." Betelgeuse would have equal power to Juno, even more, but it was sealed away, behind too many barriers for even him to break. But the girl who was in the other room—she could free him, whether she knew it or not.

"Hey Juno, what can I say? We're in love! You know how it is, I saw her, she saw me. There were sparks." He shrugged and plastered on his most charming grin. And when he wanted to he could be damned charming thank you very much.

"The hell you are." She hissed, and the room darkened. He often wondered if she even had to think about it anymore, or if she was so used to atmospheric changes it came without thought. She had always been so much smaller than everyone, even if they were less powerful they didn't take her seriously, so she had found ways around her size.

They worked against each other, opposite sides in an ongoing war, but he did respect her. She might even be the only one he respected in any world.

"What? That hard to believe?" He asked, trying to convey a look of hurt and failing miserably. Juno knew him too well and she knew his masks better than he did.

"Betelgeuse--" Juno didn't have the power to say his name if the truth was to be told. She acted like she did, but between the two of them the fact was she had given that power. Each knew the other's true name, so they had made a Pact, from their lips, names had no power over the other. It had been a concession made shortly after Betelgeuse turned away from her teachings. "You look at her and see only a pawn, but she has a family, people who really love her. For once think of someone other than yourself! She's never going to unleash your power and other than that the only purpose she serves is a pathway from this world to hers. There are other ways."

"Aw, Juno I'm hurt, you think I can't fall in love? I do love her. I get all befuddled and goofy when I'm around her. If I had a heart it'd pound whenever she looks my way you know? Aww...are you jealous? Juno, you're just not my type you know? I go for that damsel in distress." He said reaching out to throw an arm around her shoulders. She pulled away and looked at him with a glare of such hatred it actually made him pause.

"You love her? What color are her eyes?" She asked, her voice hard and sharp. "You seem stumped, I'll give you something easier. What's her name?" Betelgeuse still had no answer for her and she fell upon him like a lioness upon her prey. "You have gone _too far _this time Betelgeuse." She growled, smoke pouring from the wound in her throat. "You are not just making trouble and paperwork. You've torn apart a family and what is the prize? You can move between worlds freely."

"She could free me."

"Right, because kidnapping inspires such love." When she wanted to, Juno had quite a sharp tongue. "She will hate you almost as much as she fears you for the rest of her days." Juno promised, and like morning mist being burned away by the sun she vanished.

Betelgeuse didn't care what happened to that brat in the other room, but all the same Juno was right that this might not work, especially the way he was going about it. Women were confusing enough, the live ones were even worse. All the same it was a chance that had to be taken. He wasn't going to sit in this moldy _pit _for eternity so he had to take the chance when it arose.

"And besides," He murmured to himself. Years alone in candle light had taught him the value of his own company. "Isn't there that thing that mortals do? Yeah...some Swedish thing in their brain where when they're held hostage they get all mushy with their captors? She hangs around with a couple of stupid newbie ghosts, I betcha she'll get that. Amsterdam Symptom? Eh. Somethin'." 600 years of being dead and he'd waited in that waiting room for at least 200 of those years. He had met some of the most interesting people waiting around there.

Most of them passed on though, which was a real shame. He'd rather liked Picasso and Hemingway. Hemingway was—of course—still hangin' around but like all Suicides he was drowning in paperwork and whiskey. Picasso had stuck around for as long as he could, trading numbers with people so he could stay longer, but finally he had to pass on, the Afterlife was waiting.

With Juno gone he spun on his heel and walked back to the door. "I know you're alive in there girlie!" He shouted, deciding he had to make some allowances. This was a long shot as it was, no need to sabotage himself on top of it. "I can hear your heart beating." Even to his ears that sounded a bit creepier than he intended. He had to remember that the next time he got called out on an exorcism. "Look I just wanna talk and lay some ground rules." He hadn't _done _anything to her what was she so scared of?

It had scared her when she heard him shout at her. Earlier she'd awoken to the sounds of muffled shouting, too soft or too far to make anything out. However it came through crisp and clear now, and she had a mental image of him leaning against the door she had slept against.

She skittered backwards, trying to keep distance between them because a door could fall, or break...did walls even matter when he had such power?

"Go away!" She bit her tongue. Wishing death upon his seemed more ridiculous than anything. "I hate you!" She wondered if he really could hear her heart beating. "I want to go home!" She screeched, grasping at straws, desperate. Something might inspire him to let her go so she would try anything once.

"Yeah and I'm _madly _in love with you right now!" He walked through the door like it wasn't there and stalked up to her. Later she blamed his powers but it was her own fear that paralyzed her then. Had there been a bed she might have ducked under the covers. He bent, gripped her forearms hard with icy claws and lifted her clean off her feet so she could meet his eyes. "Whether you like it or not you made a deal with me mortal! You're my wife now and I'm getting damned sick of shouting at you." He lowered his voice and would never admit he'd learned that sometimes shouting wasn't as scary as whispering from Juno. "Rule one: No more yelling." He narrowed his eyes.

Her _brown _eyes were wide and he wondered if they'd just keep getting wider until her eyes fell out of her skull. Her face had gone a bloodless sort of pale and he could feel she was trembling like a scared little mouse. "Got that?" She nodded, once. He continued: "Rule two: This place is yours. You can't leave but you can go wherever you want in here." His voice dropped to a lighter hush. "Not like you can do any damage." She nodded again, more to please him than in actual agreement. He set her down and she took two large steps back, tripping over the hem of the skirts she still wore and falling hard to the ground. Once there she curled into a ball and cowered away from him. "Jesus." He sighed. "I'm not going to let you die, whether you want to or not, but if you feel like helping me with that, just come out when you're hungry. I'm not going to kill you and I'm sick of you actin' like I am!" And he stormed out through the door, though storming loses some of it's strength when you just phase through things.

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**He's talking about Stockholm Syndrome, if you're curious. I think it's terribly interesting but you may not so here's a quick description, sometimes in hostage situations the hostages will develop what they think is love towards their captor, going so far as to try and help them, refusing to be rescued, and even helping with the legal costs if the cops do catch the kidnapper.**

**Pookiespeer -- **Well I have continued and I'm glad you like it so much. I ADORE the movie and I'm trying to keep this much closer to that than my other stories have been, even though they're movie based too. I will continue as fast as I can, but like I mentioned Mid-terms are here, so...I can't promise it will be terribly speedy but I'll try my hardest...

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I'm a college student I live on fast food, luncheon meat and reviews so do your part and feed me. (That's harder to convey in text, I'm listenin' to "Little Shop Of Horrors" Soundtrack. It is a joke but do review.)


	3. Chapter 3

**I figured that I was never going to get Logic anyway so why bother studying? So here's a new chapter instead. I'm not sure it came out precisely how I wanted, but I needed to set the foundation for a future events and some of the information just flowed well. Llew's the one who pointed out he's got a pillow stuffed into his clothing, I only noticed it when she said it.**

**I also took on the scary task of explaining his watches, which may or may not come back in later chapters. As I was complaining to Llew, I know the ending and part of the middle, but the rest is kind of up in the air.**

**Also I do respond to all of your reviews via the respond feature, but it seems Fanfiction is refusing to notify people of things like that...so if you've a really pressing question or something, you're always free to email me. **

**And Shameless plug! Llew on her webpage made me the F-ing coolest icon ever out of love of the line "There were sparks" so yeah. **

**I don't want to fail Logic, it's like being told you think bad. (and I do mean "Bad", not "badly". "badly" doesn't get across the point I wish to make.) **

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Being dead he had little concept of time passing, and watches, like mirrors wouldn't work on this side. You could bring them over, but mirrors turned to tarnished glass and watches stopped. He kept hoping that one day Breathers would find a watch that could work over here, and he was always on the look out for a newer watch to bring over.

They all just stopped.

And so he had no way to tell for certain how long it had been since he abandoned his less-than-reluctant bride in the other room, but it had seemed like for-goddamn-ever when she finally emerged, one hand cupped around the opposite elbow and her eyes trained on the floor. She looked like she felt as uncomfortable in her own skin as she was in her dress.

After all it had been through it now hung crooked on her frame, and a few of the hoops were bent making it look like an oval—he got an image of Marie Antoinette. She was good enough in bed but it was absolute hell tryin' to get her out of those stupid dresses she insisted on wearing.

Fuckin' harder than Chinese Algebra.

His fingers twitched, and she wore something a little more normal. He wasn't precisely up on fashion so a pair of trousers that sagged on her tiny hips and a flannel shirt that hung past her knees. It was from his closet, which was just as well, besides she should be damned grateful he was letting her change at all.

She yelped sharply enough to hurt his ears when the dress vanished and her hands shot to the waist of the pants. "I said no more shouting." He growled, staring at her. He could practically hear her knees knocking together.

"I'm sorry." She whimpered.

"I also said stop acting like I'm going to kill you."

"I'm not afraid of you killing me. I'm afraid of the things worse than death." It took him a moment to realize what she meant and when he did he made a face.

"Hey! Even if I did go for Breathers I like my women more experienced than you girlie!" He told her. Relishing the combined look of relief and disgust on her small features. "So what do you want?" He asked, watching her alternate between pulling the pants up and twisting her tiny hands into the rough fabric.

"Besides a belt?" He had to admit he was surprised that she could find the courage to snap at him like that, and after a moment he realized she was just as surprised. "I was hungry." She whispered. And just to make her squirm he pretended that he couldn't hear it, making her repeat it twice more.

"So you came crawling to me, ready to beg for food?" He asked, one eyebrow rising high against his pale face.

"You told me you would force me to live. You told me you wanted to try and get along. I am just doing what you requested _so kindly _of me." She shifted the pants to one hand and rolled up one sleeve, showing off dark purple bruises against the creamy flesh of her upper arms.

He had forgotten you could bruise people. That was the curse of blood coursing through your veins though. Live people were so squishy and vulnerable, he didn't even remember how to be so pathetic. "So what do you want?" He asked, leaning back so far in the chair it squeaked in protest.

"Pardon me?" She asked, more as a reflex in response to her surprised. Still he got a kick out of it. Dead or Alive no one had been polite to him in centuries.

"How'm I to know what you eat? I don't exactly have a kitchen and it's easier for me if you tell me what you want instead of me tryin' to figure something you can eat." He told her, recalling finally that he was supposed to be nice to her. The point of this was to get her to care for him, at least enough for the Lawyerly types who would review his case if she did happen to free him.

Well asking her what she wanted was nice...right?

Lydia struggled for a long moment. _What _she wanted to eat was possibly the furthest thing from her mind at the moment and he was giving her that bored and expectant look that always proceeded him yelling at her or hurting her. At least that much she had learned already. "Cantonese." She wasn't particularly found of the food, but it was the first thing that had popped into her mind and she'd blurted it out without much consideration beyond "say something before he changes his mind and feeds you gruel".

For some reason the memory of her family's first meal in the Maitland's house burst into the forefront of her mind.

At the time she had only said it to annoy Delia, what should it really matter if Lydia wanted to be dark and arty, but now...?

Her life really was just one big dark room now.

"Done." A table appeared with place-settings, candles, withered roses and several cartons of food. That couldn't do much to surprise her though, mostly because at it's appearance she also felt a belt cinch about her waist and that _was _terribly surprising. A quick glance down showed it was little more than a rope, but she could finally cease worrying her pants would fall down.

That proved to be a mixed blessing; it cleared up her worry of the pants falling off, but it made room for her to worry just where the dirt that covered them had come from. Images of graves and moaning zombies shambled through her head as she took a seat and lifted the box nearest to her.

Every muscle in her body was coiled, ready to run. It might not do much good but should he decide to change his mind about _any _of his assurances she wasn't going to just let it happen without a fight of some sort. The box contained a generous portion of noodles and chicken. She was further surprised at the fact it tasted rather good. Certainly better than what Delia had ordered that night so very long ago. A few mouthfuls of the food and she glanced up at the empty glass in front of her, and then up to the ghost across from her.

"I don't suppose you drink whiskey do you girlie."

"My name is Lydia." She ground out. She was torn between refusing to admit that she didn't drink whiskey and the chance that she would drink too much and lose what little edge she had with this terrible man—could he be called a man?

"Not like I'd waste my supply on you anyway." He grumbled, propping his chair back on two legs and dropping his feet onto his empty plate. It cracked but did not break beneath his boot heels. His fingers twitched through the air, pulling invisible strings, and her glass filled with dark red liquid. For a moment she feared it was blood, but upon closer inspection it was merely wine.

She tasted it tentatively and was surprised how good it was. Prior to this she had only had a few glasses, on New Years or other special occasions with her Father and Delia. It was odd to know that this beast in front of her could easily bring forth a better vintage and she wondered about that for a brief second.

Quiet fell over the dining room for a few moments and Lydia felt herself calm, at least a little. She took this rare moment to study her _husband_. Bile rose in her throat for a moment and she had to fight to keep her newly won food down. The idea that she was married to a ghost so terrible as the one sitting across from her. From the tips of the odd boots he wore to the knots in his hair he was filthy.

She spun her tarnished and bent fork lazily in the noodles and watched him. His eyes were closed and his features softened, and if he weren't rocking slightly she might even think him asleep. It was a rare chance to study him, not that she wouldn't have an eternity to do that.

A few tears burned trails down her cheeks.

At least, like this, he wasn't too terrifying. His features were softened in this moment, his high cheekbones and sloping forehead were more pronounced, making him look almost attractive other than the – was it mold? -- growing over the side of his neck and part of his face.

Her eyes followed the sharp line of his jaw and along his neck, trying to figure out just what was growing on him. His button-down shirt hung open slightly, revealing the hallow of his throat and creating an odd shadow in the flickering light of the candles.

He could almost be considered attractive in a rumpled sort of way. If you ignored the filthy fingernails, and the knots in his wild blond hair...and the green substance that seemed intent on eating his flesh...and the belly on him—she paused.

That...that wasn't fat...through the gaps between buttons on his shirt it looked almost like an old pillow. She squinted, leaning forward unconsciously trying to descern if it really was a pillow stuffed into his shirt.

His face and hands were all thin, and it was odd to see a large gut on him, but...why would a ghost tuck a pillow into his pants like a child? It seemed ridiculous.

"If you want I could take of my shirt and strut about." His voice startled her and she stood with a squeak, sending her chair toppling over and noodles spilling onto the floor. "You were staring at me." He told her, waggling his eyebrows and eyeing her. She had a startling revelation as to how a beef shank must feel.

Her blatant denial of this fact died on her lips. "Do you have a pillow tucked under your shirt?" She asked, hoping that whether true or not it would embarrass him. He seemed awfully concerned with image and it might work. It would certainly feel good to get the upper hand on him at least once. She doubted it would ever happen again.

"Women. Give'em an' inch and they wanna know everything about you. Next think you know she's gonna be asking me when I'm coming home." His jade eyes narrowed suddenly. "You're not going to start cooking pot roast and vacuuming are you?"

"Do you even have a kitchen?"

"Yes...no...I...maybe." He announced firmly. "You're gonna ask for one?"

"No. I hate pot roast." Why not admit that? The conversation couldn't get any more surreal...at least he didn't seem about to hurt her again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay sorry this took so long but you know best I can just get on a roll with a story, sadly this time it was not THIS story so you were sadly ignored while I worked on my Sherlock Holmes story. Which is done now, so there's just this and my other one so I promise you won't go so neglected again!**

**Minor note, Hemingway has become a minor character. The things I have him say and do and the comments I make are in relation to how I need him to be and what I need him to say in this story, I'll admit I haven't actually read much Hemingway at all, I prefer a different time-period of writing. Anyway just didn't want a Hemingway fan to read this and get mad at me for whatever reason.**

**Anyway, other'n that I give you what I think was a terribly fun chapter to write!**

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"Are you going to try to _clean?" _He said the word like it was something foul, with the same intonation someone might use to talk about a child molester or a serial rapist. She wasn't certain what that meant about him, beyond the fact that he was a filthy monster that even serial rapists would probably look down on, but it was another piece to the puzzle and he hadn't ever answered her question about the pillow.

She wasn't certain how to answer the question he had asked though. She had no intention of living long in the filth of this place, but at the same time everything—absolutely _everything—_was so filthy she wasn't certain she could bring herself to touch it even to clean.

"Would you let me if I wanted to?" She finally settled on a question right back. They had fallen into a sort of shaky truce that rested on feeling the other out with veiled insults and flickers of pure stubborn will. He rolled his eyes and his feet clattered to the floor while he pitched forward. For a moment she was certain he would fall, but with a grace that surprised her he caught himself on the edge of the table and cupped his chin in his hands, resting his elbows on the table. She didn't like to admit it but it _had _been graceful in an odd sort of way.

"Come on babes I told you I'm not going to touch you and honest I meant it. I just need a mortal bride and you happened to be the only mortal in need of my services. That's all I want. Yeah sure you've gotta stay here, but beyond that I don't give a rat's ass what you do." He told her, and there was a tired resignation hidden behind the words. She believed him in spite of herself.

"Can I at least go see my parents, you got into Adam's model right?" She asked, her voice turning soft and tentitive, he was being kind, and he hadn't hurt her or even made a move like he would hurt her since he'd grabbed her arms, and she could even understand why he had done that. It was terrible and mean but he was uncouth and and rude and she wasn't listening so he had resorted to what he knew. Maybe if she was calm and quiet and didn't pester him too much she could talk him into letting her go home, and if she could get home for just a few minutes surely Barbara and Adam would know how to help her.

At the very least she could get their copy of the Handbook and maybe find her own way out of this hell she'd subjected herself to—had it really only been a few hours ago? She didn't know, she had worn a watch, but somewhere between the wedding dress and this new outfit of dust and mothballs she had lost it.

"Nope. Sorry babes you can't leave here, I told you that rule already." She glanced down at the ring on her finger. It had become a habit, she'd glance at it every few minutes, just to see if it was really still there and she was really here. A small, childish part of her prayed quietly that she would wake up any moment.

Sun would be pouring in through a crack in her blinds. No matter how tightly she shut them sunlight always found a way in and illuminated the dust-moats that swirled about her room. She was on the second floor but she was right above the kitchen and she could always smell the strong scent of Delia's gourmet coffee, and on especially quiet mornings she could strain her ears and hear the gurgling growl of the machine.

In the room next to her—Delia had plans to turn the attic into a master suite but Adam and Barbara had ruined that—she could hear her father already shifting, changing out of his pajamas and soon he'd traipse down the hall to his study. Delia would never fetch him coffee so when Lydia went down for her small breakfast of toast and eggs she'd be asked to take it up to him.

She hated that more than anything and yet here in this dark and dusty _hole _she found herself longing for those little moments.

"I just want to tell them I'm alright." She pleaded, wondering if he was the sort to fall for puppy-dog eyes and crocodile tears.

"Babes, as long as you're wearin' my ring yer not leavin' this place." He told her, standing in a smooth motion and stretching as though he'd been still too long. "Other'n not screeching like a banshee and not leavin' I really don't care what you do with yerself but I've actually got a job you know." He tugged his lapels like that was something truly spectacular. "So I'm off." And like that he was gone.

And back again.

"You need a room or something right? You'll not clean nothin' so long as you've something to yourself so here." He walked to a recliner that sat in a corner surrounded but stubs of candles and piles of newspapers. Pushing some of the older papers aside he revealed a box of doorknobs. Sifting through them as though which one he picked was of great importance he finally selected a plain oval knob of a dark brushed metal and slammed it hard into the wall, twisting it roughly and then pulling open the wall. A door appeared, with rough edges mind you but a door all the same, and beyond that was a small closet of a room, with a cot in one corner that had aged white sheets and a green blanket. It looked like something out of an old Military movie. There was a small desk that bore a little oil lamp and a window that was much too grimy to see out of beyond a few shadowy smudges.

"There you go." He said it like he'd just presented her with the keys to a castle and was gone again. With a shaking sigh Lydia entered the small room and pulled the door shut behind her. There was a lock on her side, not that it would really do much good. It still felt rewarding to hear the soft snick as the deadbolt slid into place.

She climbed onto the bed slowly, disheartened by the load creaking, terrified that her tiny bed—the only one she had—would break under the strain.

Miraculously it held and she stretched out slowly, finally settling in, burying her face in the pillow and crying despite her promise not to, surprisingly enough she missed her family, Delia included.

* * *

He looked around the smoke-filled bar. It had been ages since Hemingway had gotten away from all his work long enough to share a drink with anyone, let alone someone like Betelgeuse who was considered bad news—_unfairly!_

Finally he caught sight of his old friend and moved through the thick crowd to the small table Hemingway had procured for them. They were an odd pair and many around this side did not understand their friendship. It was true that Betelgeuse didn't entirely understand it. But in his final days, when Hemingway began to loose his mind and more importantly his ability to write there were few who really understood, and still more people could not face his death, nor understand why it had been necessary.

Betelgeuse may not be so intelligent and he might curse more often than not, but there was an equal amount of passion in the two men, and they could see it—it did not matter than no one else could.

And with Picasso passed on Betelgeuse was the only friend of the writer who could drink to match him.

The night passed as their stolen moments often did, with much drinking and much laughing and the sharing of stories. Hemingway had a better vocabulary but he was locked in an office more often than not so the better stories usually belonged to the rebellious ghost.

"Any advice about marriage?" Betelgeuse asked. He was always careful not to mention the divorce, or any of the man's wives specifically.

"You stole your bride from her family at the threat that people she cared about would die if she didn't marry you." The older man said after another gulp of whiskey.

"Hey! I'm not the one that tried to exorcise 'em." Betelgeuse was offended.

"No but you threatened not to save them." The ghost with the supposed most had nothing to say to that. "She is nothing to you but a bauble that ensures you have more power than anyone else. Do you even see a woman at all when you look at her?"

"She's a mortal, and a kid at that." He admitted darkly. Hemingway moved for a moment and looked startled even.

"A child?"

"Well, compared to me." And Hemingway laughed.

"I'm a child compared to you." He pointed out, truthfully. "Has anyone ever taken a mortal bride before. A mortal lover even?" He asked after a moment.

"I dunnow," Betelgeuse murmured into his glass. "But don't think I'll be the first to try that lover shit. Too many strings." He downed the golden liquid in a single gulp, it was the only time he ever felt warmth since he died. " 'm tired just lookin' at her." He joked. He liked women without strings, no expectations. Furthermore he liked 'em experienced. His _doting bride _was neither. He couldn't have a woman, mortal or dead without voiding the marriage but for the power he had now he could remain abstinent for a few decades. _A drop in the bucket! _Even for one such as him that was a fair trade.


	5. Chapter 5

**Okie, I am sorry that this took so long, but I lost hold of the character's voices in my head. Anything I wrote was just stitlted and horrid. But I'm not going to abandon this story, it just might take a while for me to turn out new chapters. **

**Okay IMPORTANT SERIOUSLY PLEASE READ: **

**Preeclampsia is mentioned in this chapter, it's a disorder in 5-8 precent of pregnant women and very terrible and very dangerous. You may look it up, but fanfiction eats links so I can't offer you one. I just picked it up because I wanted to explain Barbara's trouble with having children, and I knew about that disorder verses some of the others I could have picked. I bring this up because I mention--breifly--abortion for medical purposes. Okay this isn't a ratings thing this is a "I do not want to hear one word about your political beliefs." I don't want to know if you are pro-choice or pro-life and I'm not telling you what I feel. I just wanted to explain their troubles, their strengths and their relationships and this allowed me to do that. Seriously. I love you all desperately but I hate talking about politics for my own private reasons and I just really don't want to get into that debate but I wanted the scene in there. Don't make me regret it please.**

**This does not mean you can't say you liked or disliked the scene, tell me if you thought it fit or didn't, I just don't want a political debate.**

**Thanks and onto the story.**

* * *

She had no way of knowing how long she had been in this dark and dismal—_dusty—_place, but she was certain that she had been gone enough to miss her family and friends desperately; and she had been gone long enough to wish she was missed. 

She stared at the ring on her finger, a heavy metal band that looked like it might be brass rather than gold. There was a dark stone in the center that looked more like a rock than an actual gem. She growled in frustration and gripped the ring hard enough to hurt the tips of her fingers and pulled at the ring, planning it rip it off and sling it at something—anything if that bastard's head wasn't in view.

The ring would not budge, and all she succeeded in doing was ripping the skin of her fingers to shreds. She growled again, more like a sob, and flopped down onto her creaking mattress. She was going to be stuck in this miserable closet for the rest of her life.

She wished that she was the sort of girl that princes would come and rescue.

* * *

Barbara and Adam had never been a terribly conventional couple, unintentionally they always managed to do things in a way entirely different from anyone else. It was just as well because at times it seemed like there was no one else who could understand the pair. This might have been part of why they got along with Lydia so well, they were used to living in their own little world of sunlight, dust and models and Lydia fit well into that. 

If in life childbearing had been unlikely it was even more difficult for the couple now in death and they found themselves looking to Lydia as the child they had been unable to conceive, it was just as well since Lydia had been lacking that sort of warm love. Her father loved her and Delia tolerated her but they were from New York and there were more important things than what their daughter did at school and the names of her teachers.

If the ghosts that they had to share their home with wanted to do that familiar _drivel _that was fine.

That is not to say that Charles and Delia did not love their daughter—_step-daughter—_and when she and that Ghost vanished in a flash with their child the four banded together seeking to bring her back. Charles and Delia understood that the Maitlands were better equipped to find the missing girl and so they clung to each other in their country home and did the only thing they could think of, _they prayed._

The first thing they had tried was calling his name, but while he was Bound to leave at the mention of his name, you could not force him to come—or maybe that was attributed to his new mortal bride. When they could not get to Betelgeuse they went to Juno. They pushed through the make-shift door in their attic kingdom and exploded into the waiting room, screaming for Juno.

"You have to wait your turn." The receptionist drolled, smacking on gum and rolling her eyes. Barbara lunged at the woman grabbing the gaudy collar that she still wore from life and dragging the woman forward so the two women were eye to eye.

"That monster Betelgeuse stole that little girl from our home. _That living girl! _Now you either get Juno down here right this instant or I'm going to pull you through this tiny window and _make _you take me to Juno." She hissed, and Adam stood at her shoulder, his fingers just barely brushing her shoulder. He knew that Barbara was better and confrontation than he was—discounting when it came to meddling-family members. He also knew that she was just as worried for Lydia and he did all he could; he stood at her side and let her know that he was there.

"What in the Nine Hells are you doing?" A gruff voice called from behind them. Barbara dropped the hold she had on Miss Argentina and spun, nearly decking poor Alan who stood at her side. He knew well enough to back away and together they faced Juno.

The woman stood looking up at the pair with a cigarette dangling from between her lips, pressed thin in her anger. Alan jumped when Miss Argentina slammed the small plastic window shut behind them with a bang. "He took Lydia! You're always spouting rules and regulations, you can't just _let _him do that! You have to get her back!" Barbara shouted. Only Alan could hear the twinge in her voice that signaled just how scared she was for the child. She trembled like a string pulled too tight and twanged against his soft touch and he wished he could still feel her when he hugged her.

"What did he do wrong? _You _let him out when I told you not to. _You _didn't put him back even when I told you. _You _left out the Handbook for Otho to find." She advanced on them with each accusation she hurled. "Lydia promised herself to him in marriage if he saved your skins. He did and she married him and now she's Bound to his side for all eternity. As much as I detest the power he has now, and as much as I would like the living to stay where they belong _there is nothing I can do_." The lights dimmed when she spoke and her words carried all the finality of a judge's sentence.

Her face softened—at least as much as her hardened face could soften—and she reached out to touch Barbara's trembling arm. "I will do all I can, but our world is bound by rules, just like the world of the Living, and this is unprecedented. There might be something I can do but shouting up a storm and torturing a secretary is not going to help Lydia." She murmured. People appeared from the offices, peering around corners and watching the first time anyone could name that Juno was being kind. "Go home, comfort her parents, and know that we are doing everything we can."

It was miserable to have to give up so soon, but Juno had a point, a point they had refused to see in their anger and worry. They returned home and as the door slid shut behind them Barbara collapsed against her soft-spoken husband.

"Oh Adam." She wept. It was rare that his wife—normally the strong one in their relationship—cried, the first time was just after they were married, when her father died suddenly.

The second time was in their third year of marriage. They knew from the start that they wanted children and were thrilled when she became pregnant so soon after their wedding. She was a perfect, glowing mother-to-be until the first few days of the third trimester. She started complaining of headaches often, and spent most of her time in bed. When she did get up she proved to be dizzy and found herself suffering bouts of double-vision.

Barbara had always been healthy so they didn't think much of it, but when she collapsed in the kitchen one morning Adam called 911—too scared to even dare move her beyond rolling her onto her back and lifting her head into his lap. He stayed on the phone with the operator until the paramedics arrived and managed to remember to thank her before following his wife to the hospital. She didn't wake up until she was already settled into a bed in the hospital.

The doctor called it "Pre-eclampsia," and used words like "fatal" and "rapidly advancing". The headaches were so painful Adam was told to make the decision. They could try and save the baby, which might leave Barbara and their child dead, or they could abort now and increase Barbara's chances of survival.

He chose Barbara and she was angry with him at first, and for a long while he feared she would leave him.

She came around though—he never knew why—forgave him and they tried again, but conceiving never came so easily again. She was pregnant once but it didn't last more than a few weeks and artificial means were too far out of their financial reach.

She had cried for a long time—sometimes with no reason—but she had gotten strong again, and they even got used to the scares and the hoping and the shattered hopes. They were strong like that: that had been ten years before they met Lydia and her family and she had not cried since then.

He had not even been certain that they could cry now that they were dead, but he held her all the same and shushed her softly and rocked her back and forth and told her that everything would be okay, the same things he had whispered to her when she finally came home from the hospital. He did not know then and he did not know now if things would ever be okay, but he promised they would all the same.

He was the quiet one, the nurturing one, but he was stubborn and strong too, he had to be, and he would do anything he could; just like Barbara would and just like Juno would.

Right now that was the best he could do, and right now that was what Barbara needed.

"Wait--" She was still crying but her eyes glittered with hope and that meant all the more. "We could make a door to see Juno, and he could get into your model, do you think there's someway we could get to wherever he is? We could go save Lydia ourselves."


	6. Chapter 6

**I present to you a new chapter, with a terrible cliff-hanger. I figured I've still a long holiday in front of me so I should offer you all a late Christmas present that comes to you earlier than it would have if I had waited until I was finally home from this lovely long holiday.**

**I request a present from you all, not killing me for the cliff that awaits you at the end of this chapter. **

* * *

"_Babes, as long as you're wearin' my ring yer not leavin' this place." _

Strange snippets of their conversations—if they could be called that—floated through her mind. She was too scared to allow herself to fall asleep completely, and instead drifted into that hazy place where dreams and reality meet in a strange and confusing dance.

She rolled over, confused, wondering if he were in the room with her talking or if that was part of her almost-dream. She was used to a large king sized bed at home, Delia had bought it for her and Charles but then decided she wanted one of those hip, new air mattresses and Lydia got the shuff-off. This bed was hardly a twin and she promptly rolled out of it and hit the floor with a yelp as she came fully awake.

She saw where she was, remembered all that had happened and wished she could have stayed asleep. She saw the ring on her finger and the smudges of blood from her attempt to pull it off. She wondered if she were desperate enough to free herself of this terrible bondage to cut the finger off—then wondered where she would even get the knife from.

"_Babes, as long as you're wearin' my ring yer not leavin' this place." _

If she could find a knife it would certainly be worth the effort, she wasn't left handed anyway. She glanced around the small room and could see only the tiny window and the bed and a crooked table that was more leaning against the wall than standing. She took a step closer to the table and knocked it to the floor, the legs sagging in different directions.

With one foot on the surface she braced herself and grunted with the engery, struggling to rip one of the legs off.

The wood groaned and creaked in protest but nothing happened. She let go, took a deep breath and tried again, using all the strength at her disposal and finally the leg snapped off. She cried out in surprise at first and again in pain as she flew backwards and crashed into the opposite wall, her head slamming against the wood and for a moment she saw stars.

The pain was easy to ignore, she had her prize and that was all that mattered and within her breast her heart was beating so fast she could feel it slamming into her ribs, pumping adrenaline through the whole of her system. She had a plan, not a very good one, but a plan.

She hefted the leg, wondering if it was too light for the job she planned for it.

No matter.

She climbed onto the small bed, splaying her feet so she didn't wobble quite so much and swung with all her might at the glass.

She had never been one for sports but when she was small she used to be on the softball team at her mother's insistence. It was always strange that Lydia could remember her mother forcing her to play softball—_you'll make friends, no one cares if you play badly—_but she couldn't recall her mother's face without looking at a photo.

_Swing! _

The glass cracked, like safety glass on a windshield. Spiderwebs spread over the surface and she could hear it crackling and breaking. She grinned viciously, startled at the seven hundred tiny reflections that grinned back at her. She swung again. It cracked more and now she shifted, hoisting the table leg more like a battering ram, throwing all her force into every movement.

Glass exploded towards her, wind screamed and the whole house seemed to shake. She was thrown once more into the wall and fell with the tinkling bits of glass to the floor, sheilding her face with battered and bloody hands.

The ring burned her finger and she screamed finally and then silence prevailed.

She looked up and the window looked out into the most unnatural darkness she had ever seen, and she shied away from it, uncertain even in her hatred that Betelgeuse was the worst out there. She knelt among the glass and looked for a shard that could serve her purposes and finally stumbled upon one as it stuck into her palm. She hissed in pain and pulled it out, a long shard, thick and maybe sharp enough that she could use it like a knife.

She used it to saw at the edge of the flannel shirt she still wore and wrapped the scrap of fabric around one end. Every knife needed a handle. She gripped it tightly and even through the layers of fabric she could feel the hard edge of the glass.

She pressed her left hand hard to the floor and wondered if she should bring the knife down hard like a guillotine blade or if she should press slowly like chopping a tomato.

She chose slowly, like a tomato and pressed the makeshift blade hard into the flesh. She couldn't watch and it took most of her self control to try and remind herself that this was her only option.

"_Lydia!" _She looked up at the sound of her name, even though the person who called her was on the other side of her ramshackle door. The knife fell from her hand and she lunged at the door, tearing it open and nearly ripping it off it's rusted hinges. There, looking confused, bedraggled, and grateful all at once stood Barbara and Adam. She flew at them in a flurry of tears and laughter, trying to hug them both at once.

"We were so worried for you!" Barbara cried, cradling the sobbing girl in her arms, which here held substance.

"What's this, what happened?" Adam asked, gripping her left hand and inspecting the wounds she had already accumulated in her mad endeavor to save herself from being married to Betelgeuse. She explained the strange thing the monster said about his ring, and how she had tried to remove it, any way possible. How it might free her from his grasp.

"Oh, oh baby, no you don't need to do that. We are here now." Barbara comforted her. "We're going to save you and you don't need to worry about him, we won't let him take you. No again." Barbara promised and Adam agree, dropping a kiss into Lydia's hair, holding her and Barbara as well. Both women were shaking.

There was a smell like ozone and a pop that shook the floor. Betelgeuse stood in the center of the room, reeking of bourbon and gin and holding a small paper parcel, staring at the scene that was unfolding in what was unjustly called his living room. "What--"

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you so much you horrible monster." Lydia shouted, grabbing hard to Barbara. "Take me away from here." She begged. One pale hand reached out for her on the part of the supposed Ghost with the Most.

"No, no don't!" He tried, but the wind swirled and screamed and Lydia felt it kick up under her and she whirled away, the wind buffeting her so hard she could hardly hold on to Barbara and Adam. She felt them pull away from her and hit the ground hard, sand shifting under her but not enough to soften her fall.

* * *

**I know it's short but I wanted to end it here and it is out three weeks earlier than it was supposed to be, but anyway much love to you all and I hope your holidays are going well.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Okay I lied, you'll find out what happened with Barbara and Adam on their end of things in the NEXT chapter after this one. Sorry but I liked this one just the way it was, even if it's short and not completely what I promised you. But I really, really like it, and I hope you do it.**

**And I don't own anything.**

* * *

She landed hard on the ground, which shifted away under her and when her eyes snapped open she found herself surrounded by acres and acres of yellow sand. In the distance there were twisted red-rock mountains and a large planet with a ring just barely visible in the harsh light.

_She knew this place._

She knew this place and she knew how dangerous it was. She couldn't figure out how she had come to be here and she didn't know the first thing about getting home.

This was the place that Adam and Barbara had told her about one night over popcorn. Saturn, they said, which was where Ghosts went when they tried to leave the house they were tied to for their time on Earth. Barbara and Adam had both come here when they had stumbled out one of the doors of the house, but they had just gone back in the door.

Lydia didn't know how she had come to be here, Adam and Barbara were doing everything, they were saving her from that---

The sound that came from far behind her was like nothing she had ever heard in all her life. Words could not capture it, could not capture the sheer terror that flooded through her veins. She froze, too scared to think, to terrified to even breathe. Her hands bunched in the pants she still wore and she realized that her whole body was shaking uncontrollably.

_Again._

_It was getting closer._

_Oh!_

She turned, very slowly, as though moving slowly would offer her protection even when she was out in the middle of nowhere like this. In the far distance she could see a hulking shadow drawing closer to her by great leaps and bounds. It would rise high into the air and then plummet back to the ground, vanishing, only to resurface again.

As it drew closer she could feel the shock waves sent through the ground with its every movement. Her mouth dropped open, as though she would scream, but no sound came out other than a strangled gasp as she tried with every ounce of her being to start breathing again.

She had been so certain that nothing was worse than that monster that had tortured and tormented her family.

She had been so absolutely certain that no fate was more terrible than having to be married to him for even a second longer, he who was dead and cold and powerful and twisted and cruel. And now she stood here in the middle of a strange land, wind whipping sand against her skin, and she prayed for him.

The creature was close enough that when it lifted out of the ground she could see it was covered in stripes, purple and pale lavender, and all her frazzled mind could draw together enough to think was: "How does 'til death do we part work when you're married to a man who has been dead for hundreds of years."

A tear, cold and soothing in this harsh landscape landed on the back of her hand and seemed to startle her from her shock-induced reverie. She spun on her heel and ran, her feet pounding into the sand and slipping out from under her at every last turn. Her chest was on fire and the sand was blowing into her eyes with such force that she could barely see anything at all, just a blur of blue and yellow and red.

And all she could think was _Oh God! I'm going to die! I'm going to die! ImgonnadieImgonnadieImgonnadie!_

She crested a dune, and the sand shifted just right and the wind blew just right and the creature hit the ground at just the right time and she slipped and tumbled down the impossibly steep hill, sand scraping her soft flesh and the air being fully and completely driven out of her lungs and she thought she couldn't be any more scared than she was already.

Then it struck her, just as she slid to a stop, the creature she hadn't a name for looming at her from the top of the hill she had just rolled down. If she could draw but one more breath into her battered body, she could call for _Him._

Because in that moment little Lydia Deetze, called 'pumpkin' by her father still, grew up. She realized that there were things far more terrifying than that dead man. She realized that there was kindness in him for all the terrible things he had done to her and all the misery he had caused. He had saved the Maitlands when she asked. He had kept his promise, he hadn't even hurt anyone too badly. He had stolen her away from her family but she had agreed to that, she had promised she would in exchange for the Maitlands.

He had helped her get over whatever that illness was that struck her when she first came to his horrid little shack of a house. He had given her new clothes, and promised not to hurt her, and fed her. All he wanted was for her to stop shouting and stop crying.

He had even given her a small little room of her own, with a little bed and a tiny window—even if it didn't look anywhere. He had left her alone when she most wanted to be alone and all he asked was for her to be married to him so he could cross-over at will.

And even when the Maitlands had freed him he hadn't hurt anyone. _Seriously_. Her father was fine if not terrified, but he was always terrified. He hadn't hurt Delia, he'd inspired her—though that was a bit painful for Lydia but that was hardly the point of anything.

The beast crashed down the hill, it's long body twisting and thrashing and reminding her of the one time she had seen a snake eat a mouse. She was too scared to give in to her stomach's desire to empty its contents. It screamed and screeched and thrashed and _ohgodohgod!_

Her last thought was that he wasn't really so bad, her husband the ghost. When he smiled he even could be called...certainly not handsome but he could look kind in some of his softer moments. And he had fed her, not only fed her but what she had asked for too, he wasn't so bad and there were monsters so much worse out here in the big bad world and oh if only she had realized this just a few hours sooner.

She finally grew up, and she was going to die.

Death would have been pleasant compared to the pain that tore through her whole body. The snake-monster was as much at the mercy of the shifting sands as she was, it couldn't stop in time and the twisting jumble of muscles and scales tumbled right over her, knocking her back to the ground and crushing her.

She could almost hear her bones creaking and groaning but she was screaming too loud and she could hear the thudding and the scuffling as she and the monster rolled over and over and over again. The tip of it's tail whipped across her face and she felt a completely different kind of pain.

Sharp and burning and painful and she was wailing so loud she couldn't even catch her breath long enough to scream for help.

_Betelgeuse._

She thought, screwing her eyes shut and trying to curl herself up into a small little ball, trying to protect herself with the most primal instincts she had.

_Betelgeuse I'm sorry. I'm sorry, please help. I won't run away again. Please help._

_Please._

_Betegeuse?_

But he didn't come. She couldn't utter the words aloud for all her pain and she couldn't even hardly draw breath anymore and he would never, ever come, even if he could hear her. She was a terrible person. He had promised and she had promised and when the time came to pay up she had refused and still he had tried to be kind to her, tried to make her feel at home, tried to protect her.

She couldn't blame him. She wouldn't come help her.

Hysterical she thought she could put in a good word with Juno when she crossed over because she was going to die.

Eighteen and she was going to die and she probably deserved it. _He had tried in his own way. He had made no pretenses and he had _tried!

As the snake stopped rolling and reared back, fangs as long as she was tall dripping in excitement, she was graced with one final image. The sight of him, reaching out to her, his face looking small and scared and helpless. 'No, don't.' He had tried to help her even then. All green eyes and fear and kindness beneath the dirt and she heard her final words to him echoing in her head like some eternal punishment, spiritual pain to match the pain her body was in still. 'I hate you so much you horrible monster!'

"I'm sorry, Betelgeuse." She managed, her eyes sliding shut, waiting for death to come and wondering who would tell her parents she was dead. Would they let her haunt their house? Would they tell her what had happened to her? That she had turned her back on someone so kind and so helpful if not coarse and gross.

Her family would mourn her, Barbara and Adam included—what would they tell Aunt Ester and Grandma?--but would he? Would Betelgeuse mourn her when she was gone?

Why did she care?

The air she managed to draw into her lungs was driven out once more as something struck her hard in the chest and drove her backwards so fast the wind screamed in her ears.

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**Please don't hurt me.**


	8. Chapter 8

**We're nearing the end of this endeavor. This one has been a long way in the making, and I am proud of it to say the least, hope you all like the ending when it comes, or this chapter for that matter. I know you've been denied the Beej/Lydia interaction that you all live off of (I do too) but at least there's a bit of a squishy moment at the end.**

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She hit the ground with such a great force that if she'd had any air in her lungs at all it would have been driven out in an instant. As it was, it stunned her and all she could do was lay there and gasp ineffectually while the weight of the monster crushed down on her with all it's might. Her world was nothing but pain and heat. Hot breath, hot air, and the sound of scales rasping against each other.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, she had thought that Betelgeuse was scary, the worst of the worst and the most horrible thing that could ever be wished upon a person. A monster among monsters.

And with a startling clarity she could look upon her current situation and see that she was wrong. Wrong about Betelgeuse. Not just that he wasn't the most terrible evil in any realm, but wrong about everything she'd ever thought about him. Here was true evil and true cruelty and she could see he was neither.

Her vision doubled first, and then it blurred. Then there were black spots jumping into focus here and there. Everything hurt worse than she'd ever hurt ever before, and then there was nothing. No feeling in anything, no pain, no ache, not a single thing. That scared her more than the pain had. She'd heard from books and movies that just before you died, things stopped hurting and there was nothing more than a sensation of floating. She felt like she was floating and she couldn't feel anything in the way of pain.

She wondered just how terrible that was, she had ruined so many things lately, and she had been in such pain, wouldn't death be welcomed?

She couldn't have said for how long she laid there in the burning hot sand, not feeling anything and with the black spots dancing in and out of her vision. Even if she could have kept track of how long the torment went on for, she couldn't have said what happened. She could feel herself drifting in and out of consciousness, like the tide drifting in and out.

It played out through her memory a bit like a skipping DVD, a scene here and there, but sometimes just an image before it skipped ahead again in the story.

She saw the snake reared back, ready to strike. She saw it turned. She heard a popping sound and smelled stale air and dirt and that strange and pungent scent that accompanied the glue Adam liked to use on his models. She had wanted to cross over, she had wanted to be a part of _that _family rather than her own, and if she was dead she wouldn't have to stay married to Betelgeuse, even if he wasn't so terrible as all that.

Suddenly the weight was gone of her chest and she wondered just what it was she had missed. The weight was gone and the hot breath was gone and the rasping scales and all the terrible things that signaled her tormentor, they were all gone and the rest was silence. Silence and sun and sand.

She could still smell that strange combination, the one that tickled the very edge of her memory. More than just labeling the smells, she knew it from _somewhere _but she couldn't place where it was from.

She was certain she wasn't dead—though she may be dying—but she wasn't certain why she wasn't dead. "This is gonna hurt ya a lot more than it hurts me." The voice was strangely soft. Something in her memory, the same part that told her she knew the smell of glue and dirt and stale, told her she knew the voice, knew it and it wasn't meant to be that soft. _Worried. Caring. _The voice was gruff, hard and deep and it was supposed to say cruel or rude things.

But it was kind now so she didn't care what her faulty memory said, she could hardly remember her own name and what had happened mere hours ago—_or had it been days?--_so who was she to say if this stranger was really supposed to be compassionate or not?

She tried to tell them. Tried to let them know somehow that they didn't need to worry about _her _because she couldn't feel much of anything. All she could feel was a sensation much like floating in water. But when she opened her mouth all that came out was a strangled scream and wailing sobs, but that too faded into silence as she finally floated into unconsciousness.

He had to remind himself that his heart couldn't stop. He was dead and his heart had lain silent in his breast for a long time now and it couldn't stop. Nor did he actually _need _to breathe. However when he saw Lydia standing there with those two bumpkin ghosts she had married him to save, his heart felt like it stuttered to a stop, and his non-existent breath felt like it caught in his throat. Hadn't she listened to him? He'd _told _her she couldn't leave! Ghost couldn't leave their home in the realm of the living and breathers couldn't leave _their _home in this realm.

He tried to stop her, to tell her, but it was too late, she was gone. Babs and Adam were certainly going to realize she wasn't with them soon enough, but would they know to look for her on Saturn? Certainly not. He shuddered, he _hated _sandworms, and then gathered his power to him. He'd never tried to rescue someone from Saturn. _Hell_, he'd never gone there on purpose, he wasn't certain if he could do this but even if it was dead and dusty he still _had _a heart and--

He shook his head as if that would clear it of the cobwebs of thoughts he had no desire to have in his mind. It had been harder than he would have ever guessed to get to Saturn. It was so easy when one of those stuffy bureaucrats wanted to send you there, but if you were trying to break in it was damned hard.

He stumbled as he landed, feeling more like he'd been tossed to this other place rather than the smooth transitions he was so skilled at normally. He looked about and felt a rush of cold flood through him as though someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over his head. Two figures were tumbling down a dune in the distance, one was obviously a Sandworm, writhing and hissing madly, like they were prone to do. The other figure was smaller, and frailer. A tiny dark pin-prick really, but something in his chest twisted viciously and he was certain it was Lydia.

He stumbled forward and realized a second later that he was shouting her name as he ran. He wasn't entirely certain what he would do, what he _could _do for that matter, but he knew that he had to save her. Even if he didn't want to admit it, even if he didn't know why, Lydia couldn't die, especially not suffering.

That he was running was the second realization he made and instantly he tried the transportation again, and it went smoother this time, and Lydia was right there, pale as the day he'd first met her. Her hair was rumpled and she looked frail in his over-sized clothes. The Creature whirled on him, smelling his power and attacked.

He had always been terrified of the awful creatures but suddenly he wasn't worried for himself, he was worried for the little living girl that had married him even though she didn't want to, and he found the courage to fight it.

He drew power to him as much as he could manage and thrust it outward, listening to the sizzle as the raw power burned even the tough hide of the sandworm. It hissed darkly at him and he prayed he wouldn't need to attack it again or he might not have enough power to bring the both of them back to his small home. It was an unecessary worry, the creature turned and dove into the sand, screeching as it went. He sighed heavily and sagged, wavering on his feet a moment before turning to Lydia.

She was battered and if the angle of her left arm was any indication she was going to be in a lot of pain for a long while. "This is gonna hurt ya a lot more than it hurts me." He murmured, and was suddenly grateful that she probably couldn't hear him or that tremble in his voice, the vein of worry that ran through it. When had he stopped looking at her as a means to an end and started looking at her as a tiny, frail woman. Pretty maybe, he wasn't even certain anymore what pretty was, or what he would do with it if he had it within his grasp.

He collected her into his arms, trying to be gentle and certainly failing by the way she whimpered and whined, trying desperately to voice her pain loudly even as tired as she was. She slipped into silence and sagged against him and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath. He could almost _feel _her pain and that surprised him. He bent his head and pressed his forehead to hers at an awkward angle. She was hot against his cold skin and he wondered if that was because she was alive, or because she wasn't going to be that way for long.

The trip back was hard on him and he just barely had the energy to manage it. He certainly didn't have the energy to deal with schlepping her into the little room he'd given her and instead dumped her into the recliner he'd stolen ages ago. She whimpered again and slowly came to and he regretted the careless way he'd dropped her into it.

"Betelgeuse?" Her voice was so soft, like a whisper of wind through autumn trees and he was startled that she could say his name so softly, kindly. Maybe she'd hit her head.

"Yeah Babes?" He asked, falling to his knees beside her and then wondering why he had. He shouldn't have called her that, he should have called her by her name, but he just called all women things like that.

"Remember when I said I hated you?" She asked, struggling to stay awake and get this out, he hoped she didn't think she was going to die, he wasn't about to let her die after he'd gone to the trouble of saving her.

"Yeah." He sighed, and touched her hand, wondering if the arm was broken and if that meant he had to set it. It was just the barest of the pads of his fingers against her palm, but her hand flinched and caught his fingers in a weak grasp. He didn't pull away.

"I didn't mean it." She managed, trembling at the effort of just talking. Still all that happened was that he smiled and felt a steady warmth build in the pit of his stomach, flaring to the tips of his fingers and the top of his head, and even down to his toes. "I don't hate you." She murmured, and then repeated it, slurring the words together as she fell into a deep sleep.

He couldn't help but smile crookedly at her and brushed a hand across her forehead. "Good to know Lydia." He whispered. And his heart that was supposed to be as dead as the rest of his felt like a heavy lump of iron in his chest. What had he gotten himself into now?


End file.
